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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23781373">Time in A Bottle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/calixte/pseuds/calixte'>calixte</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gore, Other, Vivisection, erotic if you squint, lots of blood, rsly don't read it if you're at all unsure</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:08:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23781373</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/calixte/pseuds/calixte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin would take Malcolm apart slowly, oh so slowly, enjoying peeling back every layer to lay bare all his boy's secrets and desires.</p><p>nothin' but a gratuitous tableaux of violence. don't say I didn't warn you.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malcolm Bright &amp; Martin Whitly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Time in A Bottle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/tess_genor/gifts">tess_genor</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>If you enjoyed this, come on down and join us on the <a href="https://discord.gg/nBYCCwX">Prodigal Son Trash Server</a>!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>if I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do…</i>
  </p>
</div>He could. Martin Whitly could save time, <i>stop</i> time for someone, if he chose: the exquisite pleasure of taking someone apart ever-so-carefully always felt like it made time stop around him. He tapped his scalpel gently on the pale, taut belly in front of him, smiling as the skin quivered, gooseflesh breaking out with tiny shivers. It was beautiful, the little tremors that made themselves known before his first cut.<p>	“You know, piloerection is linked to emotional extremes,” he said, voice brimming with jollity even as he incised the skin, carefully splitting it open along the lines of bone and muscle. The gentle curves and planes of the body were gorgeously graceful, slim and lithe and fluttering with shaky breaths. “The theory is that increased electrical activity in the nerves makes the surface musculature contract, thus, well...<i>erecting</i> the hairs. Here, let me show you.” </p><p>	Carefully Martin slid the blade of his scalpel--he’d started with an eleven for a nice, clean incision, and switched to a ten for the shallow cuts--under the skin as he peeled back the skin and fascia layers. He didn’t bother to clean up the blood as the capillary vessels were neatly sliced through, wetting the skin and Martin’s gloved fingers. It only served to widen his smile, now showing teeth: he was the very picture of both harmlessness and savagery in the neat shirt, tucked in behind his paper gown. Cleanliness was still next to godliness, after all. </p><p>“See here? This is the superficial fascia, <i>just</i> under the hair follicles. Not yet detached from the nervous system yet. Unfortunately for you, my boy.” </p><p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>if I could make days last forever, and words could make wishes come true…</i>
  </p>
</div>Malcolm woke in a chill sweat, restraints snapped taut against their wall anchors as he sat upright, spitting out his mouthguard and letting it bounce off the bed, clattering onto the floor. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up abruptly from his night terrors--that milestone had passed <i>a long, long time ago</i>--but this was a first. To have such a vivid hallucination, a dream that felt so real, and involved his father cutting him, that had never happened.<p>He unclipped the wrist cuffs, throwing the blanket off his legs as his bare feet hit the floor, pulling up the hem of his shirt to check that his belly was still whole, no stitches marring the expanse of flesh. He breathed a sigh of relief, raking careless fingers through his hair, unkempt and damp from sweat. The dream had been bad enough, but the lingering feeling of being unsettled, pulse high and skin flushed like he was <i>turned on</i> by what had been done...that was worse. </p><p>“<i>Jung would have called me a masochist...</i>” He wasn’t a fan of the term, because strictly speaking Malcolm didn’t like pain, not sexually speaking, and everything with Jung was sexually speaking. It just gave him a clearer head, helped him focus: Malcolm had no idea what he was focusing on right now past the unreal sensation of cold metal slicing into him, penetrating far too deep for going less than half an inch. Then again, his father had always been able to get too deep under his skin.</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>the box would be empty, except for the memory…</i>
  </p>
</div>The scalpel peeled back layers, slowly and steadily opening Malcolm up. He whined: a thin and cracking sound, edging into a scream as Martin slid the blade in again and again, sweeping oh-so-carefully as if he were caressing his son from the inside out. Martin smiled indulgent and fatherly as he looked up, gaze flicking over his boy’s face gone waxy and pale, eyes screwed shut. Well, now, that just wouldn’t do. He wanted Malcolm to enjoy this, to savor their time together as Martin himself would.<p>	“<b>Come on, boy!</b>” he snapped, feeling and watching as his son responded instinctually, far faster than it would have taken for even his exceptional mind to process. Malcolm’s eyes watered and blinked before focusing on Martin and that scalpel. “Oh...Oh, I see,” Martin crooned, his free and clean hand skating up Malcolm’s ribs. “I understand, the belly is always a bit sensitive. Maybe another incision?” he suggested, pulling out the scalpel with a little wet squelch, blood filling the carelessly-exited wound. </p><p>	He traced the sharp edge of his scalpel up the center of Malcolm’s chest, leaving a thin red line that turned, twirling around one nipple to make half of the sign for Aries--his boy’s sign. One of them, anyway. With a careful, shallow slash he added the other side, cutting deeper and watching the blood well up, dripping down Malcolm’s chest towards the sheets before Martin swiped it away, smearing over his boy’s skin. </p><p>	“How about...here?” he asked, jabbing the scalpel in deep just under the xiphoid process but careful not to chip the delicate bone shard. Malcolm shrieked in pain, thrashing as much as his restraints would let him and opening the cuts on his body, tearing the skin painfully. “Now, now, not so much, my boy,” Martin chuckled, gently admonishing as Malcolm stilled again with a whimper, waiting the unbearable seconds as Martin changed blades again in an easy, swift motion. “We have a long way to go yet, you’ll burn through your painkillers before we finish at this rate.” </p><p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>but there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them…</i>
  </p>
</div>He’d changed to a twelve blade--unconventional, it was mostly used to cut sutures, but he did like to improvise now and again. With painstakingly slow, precise motions Martin cut under the sternum, avoiding the diaphragm as much as possible, making a slit <i>just</i> big enough for two of his fingers to slide through. He laid aside the scalpel with a flourish, moving closer, straddling his son’s hips in a delightful parody of sex; but of course, this was much closer. Much more intimate than just fucking. Oh, he was going to enjoy this part.<p>	With a quick punch he felt Malcolm’s innards swallow his hand, pushing between the lungs until he felt the pericardial sac settle into his palm, Malcolm’s heart--his boy’s heart, the center of his very being, the closest he could get to his son, <i>his boy</i>, his everything, his most prized possession--beating wildly like the wings of a caged frantic bird. </p><p>	“You know, son, the human body can withstand an incredible amount,” Martin said calmly, conversationally, watching Malcolm’s face with its micro-adjustments as he fought to stay conscious through what would have been incredible pain, beyond description or understanding. “It is <i>nightmarishly</i> elastic, able to survive and recuperate after<i>so many</i> injuries.” He squeezed gently, making Malcolm’s breath hitch, diaphragm pinching around his wrist: blood seeped in around his glove and wet his skin. It felt incredible, exhilarating, arousing in the purest way to have his boy’s heart in his hand, changing the very beat of it to his whim. Malcolm’s breath ghosted out shallowly between bloodless lips, barely even expanding his ribcage as Martin twisted his hand, getting comfortable. He’d take Malcolm apart slowly, oh so slowly, enjoying peeling back every layer to lay bare all his boy’s secrets and desires.</p><p>	“The real question is whether <i>you</i> can survive <i>me</i>.”</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>if I could save time in a bottle...</i>
  </p>
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